


Four Christmases

by Grinner_H



Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 17:16:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2237091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grinner_H/pseuds/Grinner_H





	Four Christmases

**[FIRST CHRISTMAS]**

 

If eyes could hunger, they'd look like his.

Atramental irises glinting like the edge of a knife; dark whirlpools of unchecked desire, disfigured with uncontainable lust. 

If eyes could speak, his would say, _I want you._

_I **want** you._

He is high on life and very, _very_ drunk. 

_You're_ stupidly drunk too, so you don't _quite_ mind when you find yourself pressed against the too-cold glass of your office window, thoroughly kissed like he's trying to suck the very life from your soul. 

You know you're gonna blame it on the wine when you kiss him back.

You know _he_ will too, and for some inexplicable reason, the thought irks you - _disappoints_ you. 

But then, his hand's in your hair, and he's got you moaning like a back alley whore. His teeth find purchase in the sensitive skin where your neck meets collarbone, his fingers wandering beneath the silken folds of your black and gold changpao.

Later, you find yourself bent over your finely burnished mahogany desk, getting fucked so hard, you barely remember your own name.

The bottle of Brunello is knocked from its station to the floor - glass shards in a puddle of red. You hate the way it reminds you of blood.

\--

When you wake, it is to the sharp glare of sunlight and a trashed office. You feel sick - like the guy in the song with the vodka and the nightmare-inducing blonde. 

Yoh is sitting on the edge of the desk he'd fucked you repeatedly on the night before. He's dressed in dark slacks and nothing else, lit cigarette dangling from his fingers, coal black eyes burning into you like you're the only thing in this room worth looking at. 

And it ends like this. 

You wonder aloud how he isn't hungover, and he confesses that he wasn't drunk in the first place. 

Not even a little bit.

You punch him in the face.

\--

**[SECOND CHRISTMAS]**

 

If you could rip your beating heart out of your chest and crush it between your fingers, you would. 

If you could learn how to forget, you _would._

But you can't _unsee_ them. 

And it starts with this simple enough scene - Asami Ryuuichi, standing on the sidewalk in front of a department store, cigarette lit and gaze wandering. 

You think he's looking at nothing and everything all at once. You don't know if he sees you - hidden behind the security of a tinted window, of a car that's halted in workday traffic. 

You don't know why you want him to. 

But then, the door to the department store swings open, and it's Takaba Akihito running out of it. It's Takaba Akihito who reaches Asami's side and laughingly drapes a bright red scarf around his neck. It's _Takaba fucking Akihito_ who makes those gold-flecked brown eyes light up like diamonds.

All of _this,_ in the space of too many heartbeats. 

The next thing you know, you're puking all over your limo's floor. 

Yoh - who has been seated beside you in heretofore silence - sounds somewhat alarmed. _"Fei Long-sama?!?"_

The warmth of his hand burns through the fabric of your suit like a raging forest fire. You don't know why that makes you so goddamn _angry._ "My _head,_ " you groan miserably, pressing the heels of your palms forcefully against your eyelids. "It feels like rusted _glass._ "

A moment's silence. And then, "Glass doesn't _rust,_ Fei."

His improper form of address doesn't faze you. His response _does._

"Well that's what it fucking _feels_ like!" You grip the door handle and _pull,_ and - just as the car's beginning to move - get out onto the busy street. 

Distantly, you hear Yoh yell something like, _"Stop the car!"_ Distantly, you hear frantic footsteps behind you. You try to shut it all out - making for the sidewalk that's across the street from Asami, and walking as fast as you can. 

_Walking,_ because you're not running away. 

You're _not._

Even amid the holiday crowd in overpopulated Tokyo, the streets are cold and empty. The chill seeps into your skin and nestles into your bones, like the icy grip of Death. 

Nevertheless, you keep walking - puke on your mouth and a goddamn fucking _crater_ in your heart; drowning in bad memories and bad temper. 

You know that Yoh is following you - two steps behind - but you don't care. 

You _don't._

But it ends like this. 

He falls into step beside you - maybe minutes, maybe hours later - and reaches for your hand. He says nothing, merely laces his fingers in yours and does not let go. 

It is the first time he's holding your hand in public.

You don't have the heart to pull away. 

\--

**[THIRD CHRISTMAS]**

 

If you could fall asleep, you would. 

Maybe then you wouldn't notice the way his fingers deftly play upon your spine like a song.

Maybe you wouldn't feel his caress down your side - stroking the length which extends from the cap of your shoulder to the point of your hip. 

Maybe you wouldn't think about how his breath is warm against the nape of your neck. Or about the rhythm of his heart's beat against your back when he draws you against his chest.

Maybe you wouldn't have to admit how good this all feels.

And it ends like this. 

His hold tightens around your waist and he whispers against the shell of your ear, _"I love you."_

You think about how the dying sun bathes your room in pale red. You think about stronger arms, a larger body, a rougher voice. 

You lie.

\--

**[FOURTH CHRISTMAS]**

 

If there truly _are_ six Hells, _this_ would be one of them. 

The blood - it's _everywhere._

It's in the air, in the earth, all around you; enshrouding you like a malicious cocoon. It's permeating your every sense, your every thought; taking root in the deepest corners of your soul. You _know_ you'll still smell it long after you've stopped breathing.

Your hands are coated in so much crimson, you can barely make out the pale lines of your skin. 

Cradled in your lap - in your arms - is Yoh, covered in a blanket of red-turned-black.

He's _dying._

You can _feel_ it - life ebbing away from his broken body like the final flickering candle in a blackout. You have no idea how many bullets lie buried in his flesh. You have no idea how he's still _holding on._

But it ends like this.

Yoh looks up at you - black eyes dimming and mouth widening in a sanguine smile that's too damn bright in all this darkness. He speaks with a voice that isn't there anymore, but you can hear him too clearly - every word a rusty nail hammered into your time bomb heart. 

_"I've always wanted to die in your arms."_

You can't stop screaming.


End file.
